


What The Future Holds

by OpensUp4Nobody



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Divination expert!Grantaire, Existential Angst, M/M, Magical Theory, Self Harm, Suicidal Ideation, but ignoring the hp canon, dark lord!Enjolras, self destructive behavior, talk of the future, veela!Enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-10-21 00:55:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17633006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpensUp4Nobody/pseuds/OpensUp4Nobody
Summary: Grantaire was nearing the bottom of a downward spiral when a dark lord fell through his chimney.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My warning is that this story is probs not for the squeamish, its full of recklessly self-destructive behavior and it's... I've made an odd choice somewhere in the plot but I'm standing by it bc it makes me laugh but then I have a weird sense of humor. 
> 
> For this chapter in particular, warning for: Suicidal ideation and self harm.
> 
> Also, I make up the rules of astrology in this story bc actual astrology makes me mad and I am the god of this universe.
> 
> Also also, from the bottom of my soul, bless shitpostingfromthebarricade for beta-ing!!!

The world was black with night, and the stars were hateful. Beyond the billowy cover of dark clouds, forty-five degrees south of the zenith, the prediction was death; seventy degrees to the west, suffering. No matter the point of observation, the messages were equally dreadful. A bloody struggle was painted across the stars as they hovered above, shining with forbidden knowledge and tantalizing secrets. Any search for meaning—intention behind the violence—was pointless. L ife moved according to a predestined plan stitched into the fabric of the universe. Every action intentional, every mistake predictable, every grain of sand there for a reason. Why? When all the rest of space was so vast and empty. What was so unbearably interesting about this planet that the history and future of every action was so carefully planned? Why were they all on this unaltering path? What was the point? What were they headed toward?

Sluggishly, Grantaire made a doomed attempt to shake the melancholy from his head. He lay sprawled on the flat peak of his roof, chilled to the bone. Rain, falling as half ice, stung his skin where it struck, sharp as the prick of needles. He had not bothered to cast himself a cover, halfheartedly hoping that he would catch his death. He just needed to be under the natural sky: if he spent one more moment in that house, he would have thrown himself from a window. He couldn't breathe, could barely move. The emptiness was suffocating. Having momentarily found the energy to escape his self-imposed captivity, he had been laying out for an hour. A small breath of air after having not left home in a week. He would have to venture out farther soon: he had precious little wine left, and it was all down in the kitchen. An entire world away.

Merlin, he needed a drink, he was far too close to sober. Not that muddling his mind would stop his cyclical thoughts for long: they would return as soon as the world claimed back an edge of sharpness. That was always the way of it. 

But that was a worry for the future. 

Compelled by the siren’s call of wine, the wizard turned onto his side, cheek pressed to the rough slates beneath his body as he searched for the strength to stand. It was another ten minutes before he found his resolve, and once he managed to shove himself upright he staggered under a rush of dizziness. When had he last eaten, he wondered, stepping a little too near the lip that ended the plane of his roof and slanted into nothingness. One slip and he would go tumbling down, down, down. And how would that look to the passing muggles? His home was nestled into the middle of a muggle residential area. If he fell, he would be cast beyond the illusions of the house’s conciliatory magic. He would appear to tumble from the sky, a miracle ending in a broken neck. 

But as it happened, he did not fall, instead finding his footing and made a dangerously sloppy turn as he disapparated directly downward into his room. Stumbling into his desk chair and looking ever skyward. He heaved a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of the exhalation deep within his chest and was distantly disappointed not to have splinched himself irreparably in his descent.

The stars above twinkled down over the room. He tried not to imagine they were mocking him. His ceiling was a sister to that of the great hall at Hogwarts, charmed never to be impeded by unsympathetic weather or the light of day. A similar charm had been placed on the telescope that stood in the window. Whichever gazing tool he used, however, the astrological messages were equally bleak—they had been for months. Years. Never did he seem to find hopeful prophecies. Even back in Hogwarts when he'd mockingly done his first star reading for a fellow student’s pet toad, he had predicted an untimely end. Perhaps by coincidence, the toad had been stepped on later in the week. A troubling omen, whatever the case.

A sound across the room startled the wizard from his thoughts. Grantaire turned his head toward the window beside his desk where a crow stood perched in the rain, tapping its beak against the glass. There was a letter tied to its leg, no doubt from Jehan. With a flick of his wand, the window opened. The bird hopped inside, sitting momentarily atop a small mountain of unopened letters before they were sent tumbling over the side of the desk.

Grantaire sighed again, not bothering to summon them back: he didn’t have any intention of reading them. Half were from those seeking his advice on the future. The other half were from acquaintances wishing to catch up. Grantaire had many friends—or those who would consider him to be a friend. He was close to none except perhaps Jehan, but he used to go out every night to see and be seen, drink and be drunk. Now, with the world as it was, it pained him to see so many faces.

“Can’t you knock at my door like a normal person?” Grantaire asked the bird, still staring down at the fallen letters. “It’s not as though my neighbors will recognize you.” When he looked up, a tall and very dashingly dressed wizard stood in place of the crow.

“Well- Why are you all wet?” Montparnasse squinted at him, no more wet than his hair.

Grantaire waved the water away with his wand. “Does it really matter? I repeat my question.”

“Entering through the front door is beneath me,” Montparnasse scoffed, though his disposition was decidedly nervous as he peered out the window into the darkness. “Besides, there are Aurors about tonight.” He glanced over at Grantaire, catching his eye and for a moment Grantaire  _ saw  _ those eyes stare sightlessly past him, empty of life:  _ he had pushed a stepped too far, death by double cross at an age far older than he deserved. A wound whose bleeding did not stop for anything.  _

Grantaire looked away; it was nothing he hadn’t  _ seen _ before, though the reading had been entirely accidental. Eye readings involved a very particular form of occlumency; a cursory glance of the mind and magical attachments of the subject. Once learned, the practice was difficult to unlearn and the burden of  _ knowing _ carried great weight.  It was one area where Grantaire knew his predictions must be correct in all aspects. If he tried to _ tell  _ the individual of their fate, the words stalled in his mouth, held back by ancient magic. O ne simply did not spill such secrets by chance.  _ Telling _ sent ripples through what was. Changing the fates was a deliberate and dangerous decision.

Instead, Grantaire kept the information close to heart and let it eat away at him.

“Here?” he asked, forcing himself to focus as Montparnasse’s words caught up with him. “I assume it’s not one of your lot causing trouble.” Wanted dark wizard though he was, Montparnasse and his associates usually operated more to the south.

“My lot aren’t so sloppy.”

“That’s why Jehan’s only had to pull you out of Azkaban twice, eh?” Grantaire snorted. Jehan worked deep in the bowels of the ministry as an unspeakable, taking advantage of their connection with Montparnasse to collect dark, dangerous, and exceptionally illegal objects for the department. Grantaire was not entirely sure how much of the arrangement was above board. Pulling the strings to free him from Azkaban was certainly illegal, but it had been arranged all the same, and that could not have been carried out by one person alone.   

The once-Slytherin scowled. “Fuck off. I admit the first time was my mistake, but the second-“

“An entire department was after you, so you’ve said.” It had been the Auror division assigned to The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department. Few in number as they were, technically, he was correct. “I assume you have a message for me?”

“Right, this is yours.” He shoved the letter into Grantaire’s hand.

Jehan’s presence was more written than physical of late. Grantaire had no idea what they did, but after the pureblood overthrow of the French government just over a month before, they had been working with newfound urgency. “And what keeps our unspeakable friend away presently?” 

“The Department of Mysteries is on lockdown.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “On whose orders?”

“The minister’s. I think there’s been another raid, the whole building was in a panic. I’m sure you’ll be getting an owl soon, they’ll want all the seers they can get.”

“I’m not a seer,” he denied sharply. Divination was Grantaire’s talent—not his gift. He was _ not _ a seer. The universe did not whisper into his ear. He happened to stumble upon stolen secrets through his eye for patterns. It was not difficult to see allusions to the future if one knew how and where and when to look. The difficulty was in knowing where one was wrong. In most cases, a non-seer could never fully trust a reading, and caution was required when following predictions. Nonetheless, Grantaire seemed to have a narrow margin of error.

Montparnasse waved him off. “Seer or not, they’ll be asking after you. Anyway, I had to squeeze through rat tunnels to get into the offices, so you’d better be fucking grateful. It was absolute chaos. I’m not sure what they’re up to but they’ve upped their security.” There was a certain gleam in his eye. “Any idea what it could be?”

“No, I don’t.” Grantaire grimaced.

“Come now, R, you must know something.”

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Now, if there’s nothing else, you should go.”

Montparnasse held up a hand. “Not so fast, Jehan asked for a reading on the immediate future.”

Grantaire scoffed, absolutely positive Jehan had done no such thing. If Jehan wanted a reading, they would go across the building to ask the Department of Future Affairs. “Pathetic, you’re not even trying. Get out.”

“Not even a little fire reading? A palm reading then. Or cards—anything, give me something to work with! I run with a risky crowd, knowing the turn of war could save my skin.”

“Out,” Grantaire instructed, not commenting on any allusions to the impending war. It did not take a sensitivity to the cosmos to see where the future was headed.  

“Fine. Send an owl to the ministry with your reply. I’ll intercept it there, they’ll probably be going through the post.”

“Right.” Grantaire waited for him to leave, but Montparnasse lingered.

“You’re not going to wish me luck?” he mocked.

“No, I’m sure you don’t need it.” 

The dark wizard grinned. “Very comforting, coming from you.” He turned and in a flourish of feathers he vanished out the window.

Grantaire closed the window after him, taking a moment to stare into the darkness. He could see nothing but the empty street below. He was unnerved to hear that there were Aurors about. The last raid on the ministry had ended in a fruitless and bloody manhunt through Wales after a gang of purebloods. Thus far, the attacks were not organized, but from the sound of this one the building had been shaken. 

Turning away from the darkness, Grantaire opened Jehan’s letter and began to read.

****

_ My dearest R, _

_I apologize for not writing you sooner, things in the department have been exceptionally… chaotic. I can't say much on the subject, but above us the minister is nervous. I cannot tell you how many purebloods there are hanging about. I’m sure Montparnasse has informed you of the raid—the Cursebreaker offices were targeted, though for what reason I am unsure. I haven’t heard yet that there were any casualties at least. We are on the edge of something, but I know not what it is. Perhaps you could say what with more clarity, but perhaps you shouldn't._ _To me, it looks as though we are going the way of France, or we will if nothing of substance is done_ — _perhaps a revolution in the UK would not be such a terrible thing, though, given the proper result._

 _Events of tonight aside, I wanted to ask after you. I heard a whisper from one of your usual drinking companions that you had not been out with them in some time. This morning I checked with the seers, and they too said you had been absent. I must confess myself concerned. That our shared portrait has not called my attention is my only consolation._ _I know how the future troubles you and worry that you might let it wholly consume you. I am not sure when I will be released, but I intend to visit when conditions permit me._

_ I know it takes you time and energy to reply, but if I do not get a detailed response in a few days’ time, I will send Montparnasse to kidnap you. Don’t for a moment imagine I won’t. _

_ Breathe, R. Don't carry the universe on your back, or you'll be crushed. _

_ All my love, _

_ Jehan _

****

Grantaire frowned at the letter, rubbing a hand over his face and feeling an odd unease pulling at the edges of his mind. There was something strange about the timing of this attack, though he could not place what it was. 

He reached across his desk to shove aside a stack of old Daily Prophets. Merlin, the headlines grew darker by the week. The top most issue warned the public of France’s undesirable number one, thought to have fled the country after the fall of minister Lamarque. Grantaire paused to glance at the printed wanted poster: the image was a tight shot of an inhumanly beautiful face, lips pulled back in a snarl as he dodged out of view. Ten thousand galleons for the capture of the veela dark lord notorious enough to have his face plastered even across English street signs, wanted throughout Europe on charges of murder and domestic terrorism, along with the rest of his companions.

A chaotic idealist stoking the flames of unrest. 

Grantaire set the papers aside, making space for a fresh slip of parchment which he imbued with a series of carefully chosen spells. He paused a moment for the magic to settle before summoning a knife which he pressed to the soft flesh of his inner forearm, cutting a long stroke toward his hand and letting the blood pour onto the page. Upon contact, the droplets were absorbed, inky red tendrils speeding slowly through the fibers, outward from their source. After a moment, Grantaire pulled his arm away and waited for the image to settle.

Blood readings were Grantaire’s preferred method of personal predictions. It was the best way to  get a reading on a person as they were and continued to be, an outline of their life. Tricky to decipher with lots of delicate pattern work.

He had read his own blood dozens and dozens of times. Most people only required one blood sample for a standing prediction, but his blood reacted strangely to the magic. The patterns changed as the years moved on, each time revealing less than the one previously. He hadn’t told anyone, and he wasn’t sure what it meant. All he knew was that he was spiraling toward the unknown.  He suspected his end was fast approaching . When he  _ looked _ into his own eyes, he saw that he would  die in an act of self-destruction. That was hardly shocking. Even when he had first  _ seen _ it, freshly out of school, he hadn’t been surprised. The trouble was in seeing when: the specifics were obscured.

He scanned the blood darkened page, willing himself to see something, anything new, but nothing came to him except a growing feeling of dread, and that was hardly helpful. He was left with a tangled mess of erratic patterns. There was so little left to see, but he could feel that there was something there, something just out of his grasp.

His eyes strained and his head ached as he crumpled the page and threw it aside, taking a moment to watch his blood slide lazily from his arm to the floor. He pressed the tip of his wand to his skin, sealing away the wound, before he could follow the hateful urge to keep slicing in search of answers _ — _ not that it was likely to help.

Taking a deep breath, he stood, disapparating into the kitchen. Again he was disappointingly whole when he met solid ground. He was reaching for his wine cabinet when there was the distinctive clatter of someone coming in through the chimney.

Grantaire straightened. His home was off the floo network, only available by permission. He didn't want potential clients or those angered by his readings sneaking into his home _ — _ it had happened before. Above that, when he did use the floo network, that was not the chimney he opened.

Swiftly crossing the floor, he was reluctant as he wandered into the living room—he usually tried to avoid it in a feeble effort to retain its association with happy memories. He and his sister had spent nearly all of their time playing in that room before he was old enough to go off to Hogwarts. They used to make pillow nests and blanket forts against the back of the sofa. Now the room was still and the furniture held a visible layer of dust, more dust than usual in fact. Ashy debris from the chimney fluttered through the air in the wake of an untimely visitor.

The intruder had slid from the chimney out onto the carpet. He sat coughing, soot clinging to his rain-soaked skin and long blond curls dark with water. His head was bowed, his face shielded behind his hand.

"Can I help you?" Grantaire asked carefully, moving to get a better look at the individual, sliding his wand from his pocket as a precaution more than a threat. He would much rather talk down a potential opponent than enter a duel.

The man’s head snapped up as he heard the words spoken, and in that instant Grantaire recognized him: a beautiful face from a thousand wanted posters. A charming and inhuman dark lord. As they made eye contact the world shifted with the overwhelming and suffocating magnetism of a veela’s presence.  

"You-!" Grantaire spoke without any idea of what he was about to say and was saved from finding out by the wave of a wand. A veela with a wand, that did not track. But he had no time to ponder the strangeness of the situation as a wordless spell hit him in the chest. He struck the wall behind him with a groan and was immobilized, an invisible force constricting his chest in an icy hold. He forced himself to look in the direction of the man—the veela—who was standing with his wand arm extended, water drying off of him in wisps of vapor. His hand visibly shook as the wood of his wand began splintering and burning away in his grip. His shoulders were hunched forward as though he were the one in pain, body shuddering violently, as wings extended into reality. Even through a veil of fear, Grantaire was stunned by their appearance: veela kept their wings in an alternative plane of existence, for any human to see them was rare and in this context alarming. 

Grantaire moved his eyes from the wings back to his attacker’s face. The veela’s expression had twisted into something bordering on inhuman, ever so slightly off, filling Grantaire with cold terror and a touch of awe.

"Don't move," the dark lord bit out, though it was perhaps too late for that. He seethed with instability.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Grantaire spoke through a mouthful of blood that had bubbled up from his tongue, dribbling from his mouth, burning his skin and through his clothes where it touched. This was not any magic he knew. It was wild and untamed, fluctuating between agonizingly hot and stunningly cold. The wallpaper at either side of him was peeling away and the windows were shaking in their panes.

The dark lord seemed not to notice, fixated only on Grantaire. Grantaire stared back, unflinching. Across the distance of half a room, the veela’s pupils were wide and dark as the emptiness of deep space. Grantaire had to fight to keep looking. His mind was growing hazy, but he forced himself to maintain eye contact, daring the veela to move. 

Perhaps his predictions had been wrong and this would be his last sight. Not a bad way to go. More exciting than drinking himself to death.

But it was not to be. After a moment, the dark lord gave a jerk, his eyes turning aside. Released, Grantaire slumped down the wall, brandishing his wand but not attacking. It did not seem wise to hit such an unstable target. "Why are you here?" he demanded breathlessly. The skin around his mouth stung where his blood had scalded him.  

The veela took an unsteady breath, reached for a bag at his side, drawing another wand as he threw the shards of its predecessor aside, apparently unbothered by Grantaire’s unsaid threat. " _ Give me your wand _ ." His voice, thick in its French accent, was laced with a  _ command _ , the wicked pull of Veela allure.

Grantaire felt the near overwhelming compulsion to comply as he raised his arm to fling the wand from his hand, but his mind gave a visceral tug in retaliation. He struck out instead, casting a formless blue mess of a spell. Rather than hitting the veela, the spell ricocheted, catching the sofa which began to disintegrate as Grantaire was again slammed against the wall. The back of his head thumped against the wood before he was lifted off his feet, the pressure of nonexistent hands around his throat. His chest was burning with cold fire. He gasped for breath.  And s till, he forced his eyes open.

The veela was doubled over as though in an effort to hold himself together. For sickening second, Grantaire thought perhaps the spell had hit its mark. He couldn’t see enough to say for sure, the world was rapidly growing dark. Stars sparked along the edges of his vision, and he couldn’t focus enough to read their messages. There wasn’t enough air to fill his lungs. He was on the bare edge of unconsciousness when he was released, falling gracelessly to the ground in a heap. He couldn’t hear anything above the rush of his own blood in his ears, but the Veela appeared to be breathing heavily as he continued to shudder. Grantaire blinked as he watched the dark lord rise to his feet, marching forward he yanked the wand from Grantaire's trembling fingers and the wizard found himself disarmed.

"Attacking me was a poor choice," he hissed.

"I can see that," Grantaire coughed, droplets of blood dribbling down his chin, stinging but no longer burning.

The intruder stared at him for a long moment before he turned as if intending to disapparate, though he completed the rotation without having vanished. Grantaire watched his face as he glanced about with a scowl. " _ Accio  _ floo powder," he commanded, hand outstretched.

There was a pause as the bag flew from its place upstairs, tearing open as it entered the room, unraveling in the veela’s presence, and scattering powder in with ash brought from his arrival.

The veela did not so much as flinch, kneeling to scoop the powder from the ground on his way to the fireplace. He paused for a moment, shivering as his wings vanished back into nothingness before he  stepped over the hearth, muttered his destination too quietly for Grantaire to hear and released the powder in a rush of green flame. And…

Nothing.

The flames subsided without their summoner having left. He was still standing in the chimney.

Grantaire watched silently, completely fascinated by the events playing out before him, more curious than worried. His mind reaching to put a name to such an unforgettable face. It was some pureblood name. He remembered something of the family kicking up a fuss but which family he couldn't recall. 

The veela stepped away from the fireplace. “Why am I still here?” he demanded in the direction of the bricks. The words were French, and Grantaire could only guess that they weren’t intended for his ears. He then turned to Grantaire, suspicious. "Do you work for the ministry?” he asked in English.

Grantaire rolled his eyes, responding in the local language. “I don’t work at all for the moment.” His mouth stung as the movement of his lips stretched his blood burned skin. He technically ran a consulting business for the masochists out there wishing to know their fates, but of late he had been living off of his rather sizable inheritance, not having the energy to see anyone. He had no idea when he would open his doors again. Or if he ever would.

“Would you have tipped them off?” he pressed.

Grantaire squinted at him. “Even if I were a ministry lacky, clearly I wouldn’t have had the time to tell on you. It’s not as though you warned me you were stopping by to destroy my living room.”

“Then what wards do you have in place?"

"Nothing that would keep you here.” Grantaire shook his head. “How did you get in? This chimney isn’t even hooked up to the floo network."

His question was ignored as the intruder swept out of the room. Grantaire lifted himself to his feet, stumbled and fell before getting up to follow after the veela, who had wrenched open the front door. When he reached out a hand, it met an invisible wall. He pressed on the barrier for a moment before letting his palm fall. “Come here.” He pointed Grantaire’s own wand at him. It was not a  _ command, _ but it was a command.

Grantaire approached, venturing unnervingly close only to find that his hand was also stopped. “It appears we are both stuck,” he mused. The magic felt solid and pleasantly warm to the touch, but Grantaire did not have time for a thorough analysis, his attention turned back to the blond as he  stepped back from the door, turning to focus wholly onto Grantaire.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"In my house,” Grantaire drawled, still somehow incapable of showing even a little effort toward self-preservation. “I would have imagined you’d gathered that by now.”

Irritation flickered over the dark lord’s face. "Where in the country?" he stressed.

"Manchester. You’re a long way from home." The papers alleged that the dark lord and his associates had fled France, which was obviously at least in some part correct. But why come to England? Why now?

There was a flash of something in the veela’s gaze, but whatever it was, it did not linger long enough for Grantaire to interpret.  "Are there any other exits?"

"The roof, if you’ll follow me." Grantaire stepped away from the door. He led the intruder up the three flights of stairs. He glanced back every few steps, not quite convinced that the veela was really there. Each time he was met with a glare as they ascended slower than was expected. The dark lord walked with a limp which had been hidden under his smooth movements on level ground but became obvious at an incline. Grantaire waited courteously when he lagged, much to the intruder’s apparent annoyance. When they reached the final climb, Grantaire tried to open the trap door to the roof but his hand was stopped where it would have been outside the confines of the house. He was unable to pass. "No luck. We appear to be trapped."

"Do you have an owl?"

"No, unfortunately, I am not much of a pet person. Pets require maintenance and I have little energy for-"

"Any way of contacting others?" he interrupted.

“A joined portrait.” Grantaire pushed past him, moving down the steps into his room to seek the portrait he shared with Jehan. He could see something was odd about her even before he crossed the room, there was too much stillness to her image. Fantine was frozen in her frame, staring sightlessly forward—not that she usually saw much anyway: she had been placed there because Grantaire’s darkening mood had alarmed Jehan, and as much as Grantaire appreciated the sentiment, he usually cast illusions so that she could not watch him.

“That is odd…” Grantaire tapped at the canvas, but there was no movement. He frowned, crossing the room to reach for his old muggle radio, turning it on to find only static. He puzzled over the sound for a moment, his eyes wandering to find the discarded newspapers still sitting out on his desk. He sought the name on the wanted ad, and—there it was: Enjolras, printed in strong bold font. That was it. A veela calling himself Enjolras despite the family’s denial of his relation to them. Hardly unexpected given his dark lord status. 

He looked to Enjolras who stood, still scrutinizing the motionless portrait. “What have you brought upon us?”

The blond gave him an unreadable look. In the dull candlelight of Grantaire’s room he looked hard-done by: his black robes were too thin and light for traveling in the night’s weather; he bore only his small pouch at his side; and if Grantaire looked past the smudged soot, his ethereal face appeared almost tired.

The veela shifted restlessly, moving away from the portrait. "I find myself in a difficult position.”

“I think you are correct.”

“I must take my leave as soon as is possible. It would be best if you cooperate with me, for your sake and mine.”

“Are you being pursued?” The answer was obvious. The veela’s first instinct was that Grantaire had informed the ministry, and by the look of him, he had fled from his last location. The question was whether or not he had been involved in the raid on the ministry. It seemed too large of a coincidence for him not to have been. 

“My time is precious,” he said in a clipped tone. “Do you have any books of magical theory?"

"Indeed, I do."

"Show me."

“Get right to the point, don’t you?” Grantaire sighed, leading him down the stairs to what had once been his parents’ library, a fair-sized room with books of all topics, muggle subjects included, astronomy in particular. That was for his benefit—even as a child, Grantaire had always loved the stars. They made his heart ache with wonder, as they always had, but now their warnings made it hard to breathe. "Here we are, I grant you full access to my humble library. What sort of magic are you looking into?"

Enjolras pushed past him. “I need only the use of the room. You may leave.”

“You said you wished for me to cooperate,” Grantaire protested, though part of his brain told him he should be plotting for a way out. “ I can help."

“I don’t need your help,” Enjolras snarled.

“I insist on-“

" _ Leave. _ " The word was sharp, wavering with allure.

Grantaire resisted, stepping forward rather than back. “You’re in my house. I’m being very accommodating to someone who’s stormed in, attacked me, and trapped me inside a building. I’m just trying to help you.”

Enjolras stepped closer, magic swelling around him like heat off a fire. The air simmered between them. “Your  _ help _ at this time is not necessary. You will only complicate matters.”

Before Grantaire could argue, he was grabbed by the shirt and thrown from the room, the door slamming shut behind him. He blinked, standing to try the knob, finding it locked. With no way back in, he sat with his back against the door, listening, though there was not much to be heard above a shuffling of books.

His mind raced. A dark lord under his roof. Where had he been fleeing to? This was obviously not his desired destination. Presumably, the instability of his magic had thrown him off course. And what would be the cause of that?  A curse, most likely. Perhaps he  _ had  _ been the one to break into the ministry, and an Auror had stepped a little too close and cast a sticking spell to bind him to wherever he next ventured. But a spell such as that was more likely to bind him to a single room, not a whole house. And if he was cursed, why break into the cursebreaker offices rather than attack a lone cursebreaker?

Or it could perhaps be that he was not cursed at all. Maybe he was using stolen wands, and their misuse was causing problems — a sort of magical karma — but that seemed an uncomfortably pureblood idea and would not explain breaking into the ministry.

After a few moments pondering he stood, wandering back to his room, 

He glanced up at the stars. An astrological reading on the dark lord would not be possible without first taking a measure of how and when and where he came into existence.

But all the same, he needed to perform a reading. It was a habit he had taken up in his post-Hogwarts apprenticeship, performing a reading on every new person he met. An exercise in his skills, one which at times crippled him in what it revealed. There were multiple ways to go about such a reading. The easiest way was to gain a feel for a person’s magic and perform a fire reading based on their magical essence, which would give the direction of a person’s life and perhaps a few hints of what was to become of them.

The wizard grabbed a bag full of divination supplies and walked across the hall to his consultation room. This was the room he usually connected to the floo network. It was small, dark, and cozy. Two plush chairs sat around a small stone table, exactly as he had left it two months ago.

Grantaire stepped up to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of kindling and lighting a small fire with old matches. He nurtured the flames to a low burn before throwing in a pinch of black powder, concentrating on the feel of the veela’s magic. He hadn’t gotten an especially good read on it, but he had worked with less. From his sense, Enjolras’ magic wavered between two states: sharply cold and blindingly hot, different but equally unstable, he wondered if perhaps the dark lord’s magic was fracturing. But what would cause a veela’s magic to split? Setting the thought aside, Grantaire turned to the fire before him, it flared white-hot, flickering wildly and warning of violence and strife but evading detail. Grantaire waved a hand over the flames and they nipped aggressively at his fingers.

Unsatisfied with his lackluster results, he reached back into his bag, grabbing a chicken bone and throwing it into the fire. He read the shape and sound of the cracks that appeared in the burning bone: trouble, death. Still nothing specific.

Grantaire did as many types of readings as he could think without the use of magic, even going so far as to do card readings, which he ordinarily considered complete bollocks. No matter his method, the readings painted a troubling picture: Enjolras brought death and chaos, and his cause brought destruction.

That did not bode well. Grantaire was not unfamiliar with the dark lord’s work. Enjolras’ issue was with the international statute of secrecy. He and his associates wanted harmony with muggles, not oppression. A noble cause in theory, but the cost of achieving that union if it were even possible… it did not bear thinking about. 

Grantaire was unsure of how long he had spent obsessing over Enjolras’ future, but his thoughts were interrupted as his stomach rumbled. He was hungry. Strange. When had he last truly felt hungry?

He glanced out a window: it was still deadly black out, likely the middle of the night.

Nonetheless, he wandered down to his kitchen. Usually he would eat bread with jam and be done with it, but the circumstances were far from usual: technically, he had a guest. A guest who seemed as though he could use a good meal, lest Grantaire himself not be put upon the menu. Veela were appealing to humans by design. In decades past veela drank the blood and dined on the flesh of those unfortunate witches and wizards who happened too close, though there were laws and treaties against that sort of thing now.

Grantaire decided on ham sandwiches. He had his refrigerator stocked with preserved foods despite the fact that he ate so little. Someone at some point had bought him plates charmed to keep the dishes they held. If they were trapped, at least it would be a while before they starved. The wine, on the other hand, would not last long.

Grantaire blinked. He had first come downstairs with the intention of retrieving a bottle and had managed to forget in all the fuss. He grabbed a bottle now, drinking as he non-magically toasted the sandwiches, slowing his usual pace.

Two meals complete, he ventured back upstairs and knocked on the library door. "I’ve made you some food if you want it,” he called. There was no reply. "It's on the ground outside the door."

Grantaire ate his dinner carefully, his mouth bleeding a bit with the effort, his head tipped against the wall opposite the library door. He watched the door intently, as though it would open at any moment. It did not, though he stayed up to continue watching anyway. He brought down star charts from his room, taking notes on them as he waited for whatever would next come. His brain was buzzing too much to perform a  _ reading _ on the information.

Every so often there would be a tumble of books from within the room or a quiet cough or muffled swear, but the veela never left the library, and Grantaire eventually fell into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> R tries to help and E resists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to shitpostingfromthebarricade for beta-ing~

Grantaire was awoken by the slam of the library door images of the void abruptly startled from his mind. He’d dreamed he was being burned from the inside out with icy flames, the only light in the void of space burning out from under his skin.  Fortunately he did not put much stock into dream readings, but with dark visions having faded into the light of the waking world, the veela dark lord stood above him wearing an unreadable expression. He looked to have grown more pale and tired in their separation.

"You’re still here,” Grantaire said before his brain had adjusted to his surroundings.  

"I have exhausted your library of relevant information,” the veela said shortly, scrutinizing the wizard.

"Okay…” Grantaire stalled, his sleep heavy brain hazy from the attention. “Well, you could tell me what the problem is. I might be able to offer a different perspective."

"No." The ‘I don’t trust you’ went unsaid.

"Fine,” the wizard huffed, “I didn’t want to know anyway. If you’ve given up then, I’ve made you some food." He pointed to the perfectly preserved sandwich sitting at the veela’s feet.  

Enjolras scrutinized the plate. "How am I to know you didn't poison it?"

"I could take a bite first,” Grantaire offered, “or you could come downstairs and watch me make something else."

The dark lord hesitated, prompting Grantaire to wonder when he had last eaten.

"What else do you have to do?” he pressed. “You haven't found anything useful and you need your strength, right? What if I were to overpower you in your weakened state?"

Enjolras glowered.

“Don’t think I could take you?”

“I wouldn’t know, you haven’t tried.”

Grantaire winced. “Oi, I tried a little bit! If you’ll remember, I destroyed a perfectly good couch, turned it flat to dust. You’re lucky it wasn’t your pretty face.”

“Then I suppose I’m also lucky to have your wand.”

“You are,” Grantaire sniffed, “I promise you, I am an extremely competent and powerful wizard.”

“Competent enough to sneak a few drops of some undetectable potion into a sandwich?”

“You’re beyond paranoid if you think I have vials of poison scattered about willy nilly. However, as I’m sure you’re used to living life on the edge, I’ll try not to take offence and challenge you take a chance on my cooking. I’m just trying to be a proper host... Unless I’m double bluffing as I try to poison you with my secret stash of poisons with the intent of adding your delicate little finger bones to my ever growing collection.”

“Why-” the veela stopped, apparently not willing to humor Grantaire enough to ask what the fuck he was talking about. He instead let out a frustrated sigh, relenting with a very reluctant: “Fine.” 

“Excellent.” Grantaire grinned as he turned to the stairs, the veela followed at a distance. It was only a few steps before he could not contain the overwhelming urge to continue talking. "So… Enjolras,” Grantaire said as they walked, “I’ve never met a dark lord before..."

The veela looked uneasy at the sound of his own name. "And you still haven't. I am not a dark lord."

"A sever veela with strange and twisted magic? That seems to fit the wanted posters."

"’Dark lord’ implies I have ill intentions. I do not, people are simply afraid of change."

"With good reason: by my readings, you’re a harbinger of death."

"Your readings?"

"Divination. I could do a direct reading if you like, though most are unsatisfied with what I have to say."

Enjolras looked upon him curiously. "You are a seer?"

"No."

Curiosity fell to disapproval. "Then your word is nonsense.” He shook his head. “Humans cannot see the future."

"Possibly. It couldn’t hurt to have a reading then, could it?"

"A reading will not be necessary. I will succeed in my efforts regardless of your predictions."

“If you say so,” Grantaire shrugged as they reached the kitchen.  Enjolras hovered at his side, watching with unmatched intensity.

"Any dietary restrictions?” Grantaire asked. “I imagine you’re likely a carnivore?"

"You are correct, though human food is fine."

Grantaire hummed thoughtfully. "Would it be offensive if I made you an omelet?"

“Why would that be offensive?”

“I wasn’t sure if veela laid eggs.”

“They do not,” Enjolras responded dryly, though his expression indicated he was thinking something more along the lines of: do I look like I could lay a fucking egg? “Make w hatever you like."

“Omelet it is,” Grantaire decided, moving to gather the necessary supplies and turning on the stove. "You can call me Grantaire by the way, since you didn’t ask--which is rude, just so you know."

Enjolras looked at him again, curious, obviously having recognized the pureblood name. "You're French."

"My mother was,” he nodded, “My father grew from that branch of traitorous Grantaires who moved country to England. Thus, I am English, but we visited Paris often when I was young. The city will always have a special place in my heart."

"Paris is a very special place,” Enjolras said softly.

Grantaire nodded cracking an egg into a bowl. “Which begs the question: why aren’t you there, tearing down the establishment and unseating the pureblood oppressors?”

“Why do you think Paris is where I would be?”

“That’s where I hear you cause the most trouble.”

“What else have you heard?”

“Perhaps more than most,” he shrugged. “A friend of mine happened upon your radio broadcasts.” Around a month or so before France’s fall, Jehan had visited Grantaire’s home with the request that he translate an international broadcast. Instead of using a magical channel, he had turned Grantaire’s old muggle radio to an ordinary muggle broadcast. Grantaire could only assume that the unspeakables had been tipped off to the broadcast and were attempting to understand how such a combination of machinery and magic was possible. The transmissions had halted after the government’s fall. “I don’t think I ever heard your voice among the hosts.”

“My voice disagrees with microphones,” Enjolras mumbled.

“That’s a shame,” Grantaire said, pouring the eggs onto the pan. “Though I appreciated your subordinates’ energy: they seem a good deal more chipper than you, although perhaps I’ve caught you at a bad time.” 

“They are friends, not subordinates.” The veela corrected with a sharp look before making a frustrated sound. “Are you incapable of moving any faster?” He glared at the cooking omelet.

"This would be faster if I had my wand."

"No."

"Not even if I promise to behave?" He couldn’t help tease, but when he looked up Enjolras’ eyes had gone dark and dangerous.

" _ Do not ask again _ ."

Grantaire drew a sharp breath, hand falling to grasp the counter and instead meeting the lip of the pan. He swore loudly as his palm was burned. At once, his eyes rose to watch the veela but the animosity seemed to have vanished in the time he looked away, Enjolras was blinking at him in half a daze.

"I...apologize.” He held up a hand as though he wanted to lend assistance but then let it fall. “I did not intend to..."

“No big deal.” Grantaire waved him off. “I’ve had worse.” It wasn’t a bad burn, but his hand shook, pain simmering around the crescent shaped blistering.

Enjolras drew out Grantaire’s wand from his bag, holding out his hand. “Let me heal it,” he instructed.

Grantaire held the hand to his chest.  "Forgive me if I'm a bit reluctant. You don’t seem to do very well with a wand."

Enjolras looked as though he wanted to be offended. " _ Ordinarily _ I do fine."

" _ Ordinarily _ ,” Grantaire repeated, “and yet you still suggest trying to heal me! At least don’t use my wand. I don’t want to watch you destroy it."

"You heal it then,” the veela said bitterly.

"You'll give me my wand?"

"No." He grabbed Grantaire’s hand and clasped it around the wand, keeping his own hand over top. The veela’s skin was shockingly warm.

“I suppose I can work with that. Hang on, just let me fold this.” Grantaire folded the still sizzling omelet before lifting the wand, carefully healing the burn on his hand and then--after a brief glance up for permission--the blood burns around his mouth. He was fair at healing by his own admission. He’d had to take mediwizard courses in order to prepare for his training in blood readings; consequently, most of his magical healing knowledge was blood and cut oriented. He was suddenly very glad for all of his practice, it was very hard to focus with Enjolras standing so close and the physical contact was not helping.

Grantaire lifted the wand away from his mouth once he had finished, looking to the veela who was watching him ever so carefully for any sign of threat. He still looked as though he had just stumbled through the chimney, skin still smudged with soot. 

“I could clean off your face if you like,” Grantaire blurted, reaching up recklessly to thumb away a smudge from Enjolras’ cheek. 

The veela was visibly startled, jerking the wand back, sending red sparks from the end and melting the edge of the counter. “That… will not be necessary,” he said, rubbing at the place Grantaire had touched.

"Well, thank you, regardless,” Grantaire mumbled awkwardly, moving the finished omelet onto a plate. “I had not expected a dark lord to show sympathy."

"I am not a dark lord,” he repeated, “and you have not yet declared yourself my enemy. And besides that, there are many muggle books in your collection, so I imagine you can't be wholly intolerant."

"Ah, yes, that would be my dear muggle mother’s influence. Are you about to evangelize me?"

"Is it necessary? You have heard of me. How much of my aspirations do you know?”

“You want a union between the muggle and magical world for the sake of peace.”

"And surely, as a half-blood you can see the advantage of this union."

"Hypothetically, of course. But the repercussions-"

"Will be worth it in the end," Enjolras assured with the ease of words spoken a thousand times before.

"Will they? Can you hold all that on your conscience? Being the cause of so much suffering is not nothing."

Enjolras raised his chin with defiance. "I will bear whatever comes, if I must."

"Why? What do you care of wizard-muggle relations anyway? The veela aren't particularly known for involving themselves in these matters."

"The veela generally keep to themselves,” Enjolras confessed, “but perhaps they shouldn't.”

“An entire world in harmony,” he scoffed, his tone had slipped into blatant mocking.

“Yes,” Enjolras replied seriously.

“You can’t honestly believe that’s possible.”

“I can and I do."

“Then you’re deluded, it’s never going to happen.”

“Not if no one puts in the effort.”

“There will only be harmony when we’re all dead and gone.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“If the world were coming to a place of harmony-“ He stopped. If the world were headed toward harmony there would not be so many violent deaths stretching far into the future, there would be an end to the struggle. That was not something he had ever  _ seen _ . “Nevermind. Here.” He thrust the omelet into Enjolras hands.

Enjolras scrutinized him, not yet moving to eat. "Thank you."

"Have I gained some trust?"

"For now."

"Can I at least help with whatever you're looking for?"

Enjolras continued to stare at him, impassive.

"I have some knowledge,” Grantaire argued. “The friend I mentioned is a magical theorist, and is sympathetic to your cause if you ever wanted a ministry mole.”

After a moment Enjolras sighed. "Well, I suppose when this is over I will have to obliviate you anyway."

Grantaire tried not to imagine what a botched memory charm would do to his mind. “Let’s hope you don’t have to.”

The veela gave him an irritated look but ignored him. "I...have always had unstable magic."

"I’m assuming that’s not normal for a veela."

"No, I am one-fourth human.” Enjolras shook his head. “My grandmother was a pureblood wizard."

"Is that why you call yourself Enjolras then?"

“Yes. T he veela are not kind to children of mixed blood, I was taken in by a squib. My given name is not pronounceable by the human tongue. ‘Enjolras’ is both pronounceable and has the added bonus of  making my extended family terribly angry."

"Ah." That made a degree of sense in the context of what Grantaire had heard and was spiteful enough to be fitting.   

"Technically,” he said, as though repeating a particularly well-worn section of a speech, “I am classified by law as a non-wizard so that I fall under magical creature jurisdiction. Despite the fact that my magical abilities should have earned me a place at Beauxbatons as a student, the government deemed me not ‘wizard’ enough. Consequently, I was never taught to control my magic by anyone.”

“And yet you’ve managed to raise a terrorist organization around yourself.”

“We are revolutionaries, not terrorists.”

“My mistake, I wasn’t sure with all the assassination attempts on high ranking government officials. It seemed a bit terroristic.”

“They were not assassination attempts, they were attempted kidnappings at worst. We just wanted someone to listen.”

“Then you’ve never intentionally tried to kill anyone?”

“I have never intentionally taken a life, though on occasion I’ve done so inadvertently.”

“Ah, so you don’t go around killing people, you’re just known to cause a death here and there. Odd. It was reported, if I recall correctly, that two civilians and four workers were killed on a hot day in june when you decided to pay the Minist é re a visit.”

Enjolras grimaced. “They were ricocheting spells, it’s not my fault that the Aurors are incompetent, though I will take responsibility for not having anticipated the situation.” 

“Whatever you were doing, I hope it was worth it.”

By the look on his face it may not have been. “That aside. My magic is not usually such an issue: something is exacerbating the problem. I suspect the aftereffect of some curse."

“Were you hit with anything fleeing the ministry?”

Enjolras opened and closed his mouth glaring. “I have not been cursed recently.”

"Then when  _ were  _ you cursed?"

"I have been cursed many times. But the instability started after the turn of the government, so I suspect sometime in the battle."

"You were actually there in the takeover?" Grantaire could not remember any direct reference to the veela in the fighting, but then he hadn’t been paying particular attention.

"Yes.”

"How did you escape? I imagine the purebloods wouldn’t have wanted you living on."

"I managed." Enjolras grimaced, making as close to an unpleasant face as he was capable.

"Right, well, I'm no cursebreaker, but I can have a look over your magic if you need it."

"You're not getting your wand back."

"I don’t need the wand. I just need to touch you, feel out the magic."

Enjolras shifted restlessly. "I don’t like that idea either.”

"Well, it's that or wait until you think of a way out on your own or som eone turns up looking for you. There were Aurors about last night, I can only assume they were searching for you."

Enjolras hesitated, casting a brief look toward the nearest window before returning his gaze to Grantaire. "Fine. But I'll have a wand to your chest, so don't try anything."

“Alright,” Grantaire said, extending a hand to press against the veela’s sternum. He was warm through the fabric as Grantaire reached out with his magic, awareness extending over the veela’s body. Enjolras thrummed with magic in a way that a human would not, filled to the brim. The magic whirled through him in strange eddies of different texture. Grantaire had never known anyone to have more than one distinct magical signature, but Enjolras had at least two, which chased each other through his body, blending as they traveled. They were different but all Enjolras. Grantaire reached until he detected something that did not belong. A snag. 

"There are a few threads. I can try to undo them." He looked up for permission. "They’re thin. I don’t think I'll need a wand, though I doubt it’s what’s causing you trouble."

“Go on then,” Enjolras said stiffly.

“It’s attached to your leg, it might be best if you sit.”

“I’ll stand. That curse  _ is  _ from the battle, it immobilized both my legs for a time. I managed to diminish most of it.”

“Alright, let’s see what I can do.” Grantaire lowered himself to the floor, left index and middle finger pressed to the veela’s knee with the other hand beside Enjolras’ calf. The magic was barbed, pinching and freezing the muscle. He could feel where it had been interfered with, the magic tangled and isolated in a tight knot. He reached out with his own magic and began unlooping the digs. It was tedious but not difficult work, taking only a few minutes.  He looked up when he had finished, pressing his hand to the floor to steady himself.  “How’s that?”

Enjolras shifted his weight, testing the strength of his leg. "Better. Thank you." He raised Grantaire’s wand.

“Can’t you use a different wand?” Grantaire pleaded.

“Fine.” Enjolras grabbed another wand from his pouch, giving it a flick. The light above them shattered. Enjolras frowned at the wand, which had split slightly at the bottom, threatening to spill out a unicorn hair.   

"Well,” Grantaire sighed, “that’s all I could feel, but perhaps there's something I can’t sense. I bet Jehan could get it. Or at least gauge what's wrong," he mused more to himself. Jehan’s advisement would be prefered, but would they need to reach Enjolras to assess the problem or was the magic holding them in the house vulnerable to external manipulation? Hopefully they were not locked inside a box with the key. 

Enjolras tipped his head back, taking a deep breath and looking unhappy.

"Eat your food,” Grantaire said, pressing the omelet again into his hands.

"I'm not hungry,” Enjolras fussed, despite accepting the plate. “I'm thinking."

"What were you looking into before? Maybe I can add something to what you have."

Enjolras heaved a sigh. "Very well.” He stood, setting the plate aside.

"Not until you eat." Grantaire tapped a fork against the dish.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands.”

“You need my help, and it’ll only take you five minutes. Just eat.”

Enjolras huffed but relented, eating as Grantaire nibbled the sandwich from the night before. When Enjolras had finished, Grantaire allowed himself to be led to the library.

“Here is what I have,” the veela said, gesturing to a number of books stacked on the library table. “All the information I could find on curses, unstable magic, and veela magic.” He gestured to increasingly small stacks of books as he spoke. "The best idea I have is that a curse has malfunctioned due to my unstable magic. I don’t know if my being stuck here is a result of a reverberation of a curse or a reaction by my magic.”

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” Grantaire opened one of the library windows, pressing his hand to the barrier. The magic was, as before, warm and solid. He felt about until he could trace the magical signature. “It’s your magic,” he confirmed. 

“How can you tell?” Enjolras asked.

“It feels like you.”

The veela’s brow twitched with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Put your hand here--” Grantaire tapped the barrier. “and close your eyes.”

Enjolras shot him a wary look.

“I’d say trust me but…”

Enjolras gave him a piercing stare before closing his eyes and setting his hand against the barrier. “What now?”

“How does it feel?”

“It’s warm.”

“On a surface level, yes, but what does the magic  _ feel  _ like.”

“It’s…” His brow furrowed, “It’s humming, wavering. Sharp.”

“Wild magic,”  Grantaire confirmed. “That’s what your magic feels like. At least in part.”

Enjolras opened his eyes, looking to Grantaire. “What do you mean?”

“Well, when you attacked me, your magic felt different. Cold. And when I was checking you for curses, I could feel both together, blending.”

“Is that… Unusual?”

“I’ve certainly never seen it. I suspect it’s a contrast between wizard and veela magic, but I couldn’t say for sure.”

“Can you tell if this has been prompted by a curse?” Enjolras nodded to the window.

“Not exactly, but I can’t feel any dark magic either.”

“What would dark magic feel like?”

“Heavy and thick, oppressive, but it also has a stickiness. Dark magic likes to linger.” 

“What does your magic feel like?” Enjolras asked, cocking his head.

Grantaire held out a hand, palm up. “You tell me.”

Hesitantly, Enjolras’ allowed his fingers to trace across the wizard’s palm, the contact was amazingly gentle. “It’s much steadier, or no, it moves differently. More like static.”

“What does it feel like at the surface?” Grantaire asked to distract himself from a rush of lightheadedness. 

“Dark and hazy and warm.” Enjolras withdrew his hand. “It’s odd. I have never been taught to feel magic like this.”

“It’s more useful for theory and detangling spells than it is for casting. I’m guessing you’ve just had the rundown of the practical stuff. I could show you more, if you like.”

Enjolras’ eyes flickered up, startling slightly before he shook his head. “We must move on.”

“Right. Have you tried looking at binding charms? The effect might be similar, and we might be able to use my magic to unstick us."

"No,” confessed the veela reluctantly. 

“You’re lucky I still have my school books.” Grantaire ran up to fetch his old advanced charms books.

When he returned, they pored over the books, stacking new ones on the table beside the others. They worked around each other well enough, Grantaire humming nervously to fill the silence and Enjolras huffing in annoyance at their lack of progress, asking when he didn’t understand something. Grantaire could see his frustration mounting: he had a habit of tipping his head back to breath deeply, holding it and exhaling. The wizard imagined he was cooling his simmering rage. 

After a few hours work, Grantaire stood to test his theory.

"I'm going to need my wand for this."

Enjolras drew out the wand as they neared the window allowing Grantaire to grip the wood again under his too-warm hand. The veela shifted behind him, free hand on the wizard’s shoulder, urging him forward as Grantaire lifted the window pane.

Grantaire began attempting to disenchant the barrier. The magic was as impassive as a block of marble; charms, sliding and dissipating against its surface, unwilling to let even a single thread loose from its construction. 

"Damn,” he swore after half an hour’s worth of effort.

Enjolras slipped away, sliding the wand from the wizard’s hand.  

"Let’s try a different angle then,” Grantaire reasoned. “You’re a veela: let’s look specifically at how veela magic works.” He picked up a book on sentient magical creatures.

“I’ve already looked through that one,” Enjolras protested. “There’s nothing relevant.”

“Let me decide that, yeah?”

“You’ll only waste time.” His voice had risen in volume.

“Well, what do you propose I do instead?”

"Give me the book." He held out a hand.

"Hang on, I'm still looking." Grantaire dodged his grasp.

" _ Give me the book _ ."

Grantaire suddenly found himself stumbling forward, holding the book away at the last moment. "Don’t tell me what to do," he spat.

Enjolras grabbed his face and held him there, his fingers too warm, almost painfully so. Grantaire met his eyes and found they were wide and dilated. Around them the room temperature was dropping.

Grantaire’s breath stuttered. “Enjolras,” he winced, bringing his hand to the veela’s arm, pulling at it slightly. Enjolras did not budge, though something behind his eyes flickered and he bowed his head, still not letting go. Distantly, Grantaire could hear books falling from shelves, papers being torn from their binding, whirling around them in a cold breeze, but his focus was consumed by Enjolras’ shaking frame. His wings had flared out again behind him, and his breathing was labored. When Grantaire began to worry his fingers might leave behind a mark, he was thrown aside, stumbling in the direction of the door.

"Leave,” the veela panted.

"But-"

"I said,  _ leave. _ " The command was more forceful this time. Grantaire found himself moving by magic, not command; it laced his limbs and forced his joints until he was on the other side of the door, book still in hand.

As soon as he was released he tried the doorknob, which was cold enough to warrant a yelp. Trying again with the fabric of his robes, the knob did not budge.  He once again settled  on the other side of the door, listening to the silence of the room behind him as he opened the book. The section dedicated to veela was shallow in terms of tangible information, focusing more on the uses of veela hair and the properties of their anticoagulate venom--the valuable aspects of veela to wizards. It was at a passing reference to den construction that Grantaire stalled. The passage indicated that veela constructed magical dens connected to some other plane with an entrance in the present world. Attempts had been made to penetrate those dens but it seemed they were only passable by the veela; wizards simply passed through to the entrance, oblivious.

The beginnings of an idea took hold: if it was Enjolras’ veela magic holding them there, cut off from the rest of the world, perhaps there was some similarity in the construction of the magic to the manifestation of a den. He had no way of knowing if such a thing was possible, and he doubted Enjolras would be able to offer any information on the magical patterns involved in den construction, but it was something.

The wizard rose to his feet and rapped at the door;  there was no response. "Enjolras?" 

Cautiously, he tried the knob again, and the door did not resist. The room beyond was a mess of scattered pages. “Enjolras?” he repeated, still not seeing the veela. He turned to the far end of the room and there found the dark lord, sitting on the floor cocooned in his own wings. Grantaire chanced to step closer. "Are you alright?"

The wings disappeared into nothingness, and Enjolras was leaning back against the wall behind him with his hand on his forehead and his elbow on his knee, other arm wrapped around his middle.

Grantaire wandered still closer and kneeled beside him. “What’s going on.”

"Nothing, I’m… fine," Enjolras breathed, pushing his hair back from his face. "I just-“ His jaw clenched as he met Grantaire’s eye. “I apologize for commanding you... My behavior has been unacceptable. You have been welcoming since my arrival, despite the circumstances, and I have been...I apologize."

Grantaire snorted. "Well, for what it’s worth, you’re not very good at telling me what to do. I have succumbed to none of your demands.”

“You left the room.”

“By force of your magic, not your order.”

Enjolras did not appear surprised to hear this. “You refuse my commands and yet you are perfectly fine to go along lending assistance to me.”

“I like to have the illusion of control.” 

Enjolras frowned, taking a deep breath and coughing as the air caught in his throat. “I’ll do my best to stop, but that it’s happening in the first place is troubling.” He ran another hand through his hair, looking heartachingly worried.

"Are you sure you're okay?” Grantaire asked, “You seem a bit… off.” The veela seemed more shaken about the incident than Grantaire himself.

"I’m fine,” Enjolras repeated. “What did you want?"

“I wanted to ask what you know about den construction."

The veela cocked his head. "I couldn't tell you what magic is involved physically or theoretically, even if I knew. Veela keep their secrets."

“I was worried you might say that.” Many sentient magical creatures kept secrets by means of old magic. Perhaps that was for the best, while it limited the flow of information, it also insured that wizard could torture those secrets out of them, as wizards were wont to do. “ Well, as I don’t have substantial knowledge on veela magic that will be helpful, we'll have to investigate ourselves.  Do you know how to construct a den?”

“Yes, I have constructed a few in the past. This—” he waved a hand to the windows, “isn’t how they manifest.”

“I thought as much. Obviously we’re dealing with a unique situation. Could you attempt to construct a den now?”

Enjolras grimaced. “That would be inadvisable. I inadvertently destroyed my last den rather spectacularly.”

“How spectacularly?”

“I created a very sizable sinkhole in the heart of Paris.” He squeezed his eyes shut, the memory apparently painful. 

“That seems like something that would have been in the papers.”

“I’m sure it is... or will be.”

“Was anybody injured?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know how many. The muggles couldn’t see the damage done, and the Aurors were too busy chasing me to stop them from falling in--or perhaps they didn’t care.” He grimaced. “So, I’d be cautious when asking me to do any complicated magic.”

“Still, you said you were in a hurry,” Grantaire said, hoping to displace his troubles with action. “Let’s try our luck, shall we?”

“Any rooms you don’t mind being destroyed?”

“I know just the place.” He stood, offering the veela a hand, which was accepted after a pause. “Up we go,” he said, pulling the dark lord to his feet. He turned to avoid Enjolras’ eyes, heading out the door and down the stairs.

“Guest room?” Enjolras guessed as they entered the small room on the bottom floor, it was empty and covered in dust.

“My sister’s room.”

“Your sister has a very minimalist aesthetic.”

“She took all her stuff when I moved in.” She had made a concerted effort to remove everything she owned from the house; Grantaire suspected she was afraid he could perform readings for her through her old possessions. He hadn’t told her that her presence was embedded in the house, or that he knew her well enough that he wouldn’t need her things anyway. She wouldn’t have listened, so he let her take her things and go. That had been three years ago, and he hadn’t seen her since.

“Hope she won’t mind you putting her room at risk.”

“She doesn’t visit, she won’t care.”

Enjolras didn’t seem to know what to do with that, so he instead crossed his arms. “What would you have me do?”

“How would you normally go about constructing a den?”

“I would stand in a doorway,” he said moving to the door and indicating Grantaire stand in the hall. “And I would press my hands to the sides.” He did so. “And then I would focus, the magic comes naturally.”

“Could you try to half construct it?”

“I don’t know. I could try, but I have never halted partway through. I’m not sure I could stop.”

“Are there any precautions you can specifically think to take beforehand?” he asked in order to satisfy the small part of his mind screaming that this was a terrible idea.

Enjolras paused. “I will set your wand out of reach down the hall. If things take a turn for the worse, it would be best that you grab it. While I work, you will put a hand on my shoulder so I know you are there.”

“Okay.”

Enjolras drew the wand and set it a few steps away. He held Grantaire by the hand, placing the wizard’s palm against his shoulder as he stood in the doorway. Grantaire felt the veela take a deep breath, the air in the room warming as he did. Enjolras’ magic began to shift under Grantaire’s hand. Ahead, the room shimmered and wavered in place. It was slow work: Enjolras stood concentrating, his body taut. Grantaire paid close attention to the threading of the magic, it was warm and wild, building illusions and expanding the room beyond what was present. He  only began to worry when he felt a cold stutter of Enjolras’ magic, followed by an odd pulsing from within the room. Enjolras’ steady breaths had grown short and shallow.

“Enjolras…” Grantaire chanced to whisper.  

He was met with no response, and then the room was falling away from the door frame in a whirl. Grantaire grabbed the veela by the shirt and yanked him back into the hall before diving for his wand. Unsure of what to do, he cast a barrier between the hall and the spinning room. Enjolras lunged, crawling toward the door, hand outstretched.

“What are you doing?” Grantaire demanded, alarmed by the dread the veela’s movements had incited and grabbing him by the back of his robes. Enjolras didn’t seem to hear him, shoving at him and moving again toward the room. He looped an arm around Enjolras’ middle to haul him back just as the veela’s hand met the doorway. There was a terrible crashing jumble of collapsing objects. The air felt thin, and Grantaire felt the sharp pricks of panic. Getting a better grip of Enjolras, Grantaire threw himself back, slamming the door shut as he fell and sealing it as it closed.

The instant the door separated them from the room, Enjolras snapped to attention. “Let me go!” he shouted, elbowing Grantaire in the stomach and snatching his wand, wheeling around with a crazed look about him.

“Sorry!” Grantaire held up his hands. Glancing back and forth between the disgruntled veela and the closed door. The sound had stopped, but the unease continued. “Do you have any idea what happened?” He nodded to the room.

Enjolras let his eyes leave Grantaire’s face to stare at the door. “I was not able to complete my den.”

“Why not.”

He placed a hand to his chest. “My magic is… something’s wrong.”

“I think we should probably not try that again.”

“We shouldn’t have tried it the first time.”

“What would happen if I opened that door?”

“I imagine you would release whatever has been sealed inside.” Enjolras slumped against the wall, sliding to the floor.

“Let's take a break from escape plans, you look exhausted. Did you even sleep last night?"

"I do not need sleep, I need to get out of here.”

“You probably should take a nap.”

“You could kill me in my sleep."

"You could lock me in a room or something if it helps."

Enjolras stared at him blankly for a moment. Grantaire wasn’t entirely sure he had processed the words spoken until he did finally speak. "Which room?" he asked. 

“Well, my room, if you’re giving me the choice.”

Enjolras looked as though he was almost beyond caring. “Does it have a lock?”

“It does. I’ll get you the key.” Grantaire pulled the dark lord to his feet, then through the living room to the kitchen for the key before heading upstairs to his room. The blond lagged behind, allowing himself to be pulled along, all energy seemingly gone from his body. Grantaire imagined it would not have been difficult to overpower him if he so wanted to.  “You can stay on the floor below,” he said as they reached his room. “There’s a guest room to the right of the stairs.”

Enjolras nodded absently. 

“...Do you need help getting there? You look like you’re about to keel over.”

Enjolras glared at him. “That will not be necessary,” he said, pushing Grantaire through the doorway into the room. “I will retrieve you when I wake.”

“Sleep well.” Grantaire grinned.

Enjolras paused to look at him, halfway through closing the door. His unsteady gaze, traveled a directionless path across the wizard’s face. “Don’t tell me what to do.” The words were flat but lacking in malice. Grantaire was not sure what to make of that. 

Not lingering a moment longer, the veela let the door fall closed. Grantaire heard the lock click between them and then he was alone.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, this sucks and I hate it but I cant keep looking at it, so I'm posting it anyway. I will force this story into existence if it kills me. 
> 
> Thanks.

**Author's Note:**

> so I wanted to write a story where e was a "dark lord" trapped in r's house and it was going to be all straightforward with talk of wizard politics and veela courting but then, as is typical of me, I was like "nah I wanna write something fucked up" and so here we are with another rather dark hp les mis au.
> 
> Updates might be slow on this one bc this semester might kill me.
> 
> I’m opens-up-4-nobody on tumblr if you want to say hi
> 
> Thanks.


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